


Skin

by Fridays__Child



Series: Wasteland Rough Cuts and Rambles [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bad Sex, Birthday, Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, F/M, Porn with Accidental Feelings, Smut, Sorry Gene, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24019816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fridays__Child/pseuds/Fridays__Child
Summary: Deacon helps Gene relive a past life on her birthday.Prompt: Sole and Companion(s) take their first photo together.
Relationships: Barbara/Deacon (Fallout), Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Deacon/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: Wasteland Rough Cuts and Rambles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679983
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Skin

It had been a long time since Deacon had gone to a birthday party. Not some little shindig under the old church, shotgunning cheap swill before passing out in the catacombs. An actual party, with music, and dancing, and people dressed up to congratulate the guest of honour on another rotation around the sun. The excitable, rowdy crowd was already three sheets to the wind, bestowing both a blessing and a curse for Deacon as he tried to navigate, undetected, through them. 

The Third Rail was in full swing, heavy smoke and jet haze filling the old subway, softening the near-fluorescent garlands hanging around the joint. With the stampeding crowd already three sheets to the wind, it was easy to camouflage. Deacon mingled, dodging and weaving towards old Whitechapel Charlie, keeping his face down in case anyone sought to recognise him. Galatea’s impressive social reach meant most of the room had met him under one disguise or another. Joe, the trader, seeking out Daisy to trade… stuff. Mike, the DC security guard, all brawn and no brain. Or Morgan, the sad old widower in the Memory Den, whacking off to the memories of his long dead wife. _Ouch, that one was a little too.... method_. It was awkward trying to keep track of personas.

Despite the ever present complication of being eternally undercover, it wasn’t a bad show out. Magnolia was serenading the crowd with bright little pre-war ditties, beckoning the crowd to move in time with the music and the swing of her hips. Leaning against the bar, Deacon watched as Hancock spun the birthday girl around, before hoisting her up onto his bony shoulder to the cheer of the crowd. From her heightened position, Galatea scanned the room, twinkling her fingers in a delighted wave which Deacon reciprocated. On the last blaring note, Hancock unceremoniously dumped her on her feet, and she slapped his hand from her waist, giggling as she threw her arms around his neck before making her way to the bar.

Deacon whistled as his favourite agent approached, motioning for her to twirl in her party dress. She obliged with a roll of her eyes, holding out her hands. Ta-fucking-da.

“Finally, a party you actually have an invite to.”

He laughed, motioning for Charlie. “Oof, _icy_. Whiskey?” 

“Sunset Sarsaparilla please, Charlie.” Widening her eyes, she lowered her voice, drawling in mock shock. “I’m a teetotaler now Deaks. Was getting a little sloppy in my old age.” 

“And just how old are you now, spinster? Should I call the nursing home?” 

Rolling her eyes, Galatea cheered her drink at Charlie. “Practically geriatric. Twenty-five.” Deacon choked slightly on his own. “Give or take a few centuries.”

Jesus _Christ_ , she was just a kid. Where was he at twenty-five? Fresh off the bigot train and trying to recreate himself, his first experience in shedding his skin. Shameful heat tainted Deacons cheeks. Galatea tapped on his arm, blissfully unaware, before jumping behind the bar’s counter.

“I have something for you.” Chipped nails push a box across the counter, badly wrapped in copies of the Boston Bugle. Deacon eyed it suspiciously, raising it to his ear with a slight rattle.

“Well jeez. I dunno birthday worked in ye olde times, but aren’t the guests supposed to give the birthday gal presents? Though,” he held out his hand in mock surrender, “totally not complaining if the roles were reversed.” 

Galatea growled in the voice she usually saved for raiders, or the Diamond City security. “Just open it.”

Inside the box lay a leatherbound camera, small and square with a simple lightbulb attached to the top. Probably old, even before the bombs fell. A thin layer of grease and dirt clung to the crevices in the leather, accumulating over the centuries it had probably lay buried. Some of it clings to his fingers as he traced the words around the lens. _Kodak Brownie Flash Six-20._

“Where in the Great Green Jewel did you find this?”

“Preston managed to find some of my old stuff buried in a bunker in Sanctuary. Piper brought a suitcase of it here.”

“Huh.”

He had lost his last one when the Switchboard went bust. How did she know? Deacon turned the camera over in his hands, flicking the shutter open, before holding it up and snapping a photo of the birthday girl. The flash blew a little too brightly. Galatea blinked rapidly, delicately wiping her watering eyes.

“Jesus Deak, not sure if my retinas are still intact. Remember, not everyone wears sunglasses constantly.”

He grinnned at her sheepishly. “My bad.” She waved away the apology.

“Still don’t know why you’re spoilin’ me, Galatea.”

Her small hands gripped his wrist, vice-like, as she pulled him closer to whisper in his ear. 

“ _Because,_ for my birthday, you’re going to help me relive a past life. Deny it all you want, but I’m sure you probably have photos of me from when you were tailing me as Joe the trader, or whatever.” That familiar nervous frequency, sent hertzs of vibration from her fingers on his pulse. The same pulsing energy that radiated from his partner whenever someone suggested something equally stupid and dangerous. “Let’s get some I actually consent to, you voyeur perve. You might even like these more.” 

Deacon was grateful for the glasses to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks, but his spatial awareness pricked up the eyes on the back of his neck. Galatea’s bronze eyes narrowed just past his shoulders, and she nudged her chin a fraction towards them. “Friends of yours?”

Deacon turned around, casually, as if to watch Magnolia as she took a sip of wine, the band launching into the opening bars of another song. “Brotherhood.” He muttered back to her. “Didn’t know they had legs outside of those metal spacesuits.”

The corner of Galatea’s dark lips twitched. “You should go.” She slipped him her keys, rusty on a Nuka-Girl keyring. “Third floor, remember? I’ll be there later.”

~~~

With most of the old warehouse-turned-apartments’ tenants either at The Third Rail, or passed out in the gutter around it, Deacon was able to make his way to Galatea’s apartment relatively unscathed. There was one guy, a synth he had helped liberate eighteen months ago, who eyed him off with hazy recognition. He pointed at him in greeting, feigned excitement as he quickened his pace. “Yo Steve, my man! I’m dyin’ for a piss, I’ll catcha back inside, yeah?” Before he answered, he had darted around the corner, pretending to pull at his jean zipper to take the backstreet.

Entering the apartment with keys was much easier than the first time he was there, recalling with a twinge of guilt breaking in through her third floor window. All part of the job, of course, scouting out the frozen woman fresh from the vault. He still hadn’t gotten the balls to ask her if she had noticed. He suspected she did.

Forty-five minutes later, Deacon had managed to get the kettle on, settling into the tatty arm chair when sharp heels clicked up the outside stairs. Galatea pushed once, twice, three times against the sticky door before getting it open and heading into the kitchen.

“Still up? Thanks for the tea.”

Back to her, Deacon held up a book. _In Search of Lost Time_. “You weren’t kidding about the Proust, huh?”

Galatea plopped a small tray of tea and stale Fancy Lads on the rickety coffee table, stretching out on the adjacent lounge. “Again, not everyone lies Deacon. Why would I fib about what books I own?”

Deacon wrinkled his nose at her. “Wasn’t he kinda anti-semitic? Kinda strange, I thought you were Jewish.”

“I guess, if I wanted to be.” She shrugged. “I’m half. Papa was a good Irish Catholic boy.”

“Which means…”

“Which _means_ December was always very confusing.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Opening a pack of smokes, Deacon fumbled in his pockets for his lighter. “So.”

Galatea wriggled her eyebrows at him, reaching for the cigarette he'd just lit. “So…?”

“Why are you home so early? Gonna turn into a pumpkin now you’re all old?”

“Mhm, no.” Stretching her small body as long as she can, Galatea popped her heeled feet on the top of the couch, cracking the bones in her neck. Nearly upside down, she looked up at him through dark eyelashes. “It turns out parties aren’t as fun when you’re not off your tits.”

Taking another lungful of nicotine, she waved the cherry in his general direction.

“Did you like your present?”

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Deacon pulled the camera from his back under the couch, before shaking it gently at her.

“‘Course, who doesn’t like presents?” The corners of his mouth twist as he peered at her through the viewfinder. She ran her hands down the front of her dress with a laugh.

“Are you going to take my photo before I lose my looks? I’ve already looked like this for nearly two hundred years longer than expected, it probably won’t last much longer.”

Shaking his head at her, he snapped a photo.

Gravity pulled at the hem of her dress, slipping down to hint at the tops of her stockings. Heading over to her, he borrowed the fabric of her skirt to clear the lens, letting the back of his hands brush against her thigh. Smirking, she leered up at him.

“Are you going to tell me I look nice?” 

Deacon snorted back at her. “What, you fishing? You already know that, braggart.”

His fingers hit cool metal against her skin, hooking around a garter belt ribbon.

“Sheesh, you did dress up. What else have you got hiding under there?”

The heel of Galatea’s shoe pushed mean against his chest as she pushed him off her, and he captured her nylon covered legs through the frame. Moving him to sit on the couch, Galatea turned her back to him, unwrapping herself as she tugged on the zipper of her dress, sliding it slowly off her shoulders to reveal the sheer, high-necked blouse underneath. Her hands followed the trail of her dress as she pushed it down to her ankle with her legs kept straight, before kicking it to the side as the flash went off again. Deacon wolf whistled, slightly shaky with a laugh, reaching out to run his hands down the mesh and satin are pulled taut and clinging to her body, accentuating the dip of her waist. A strangled sound escaped his throat when he felt the boning underneath.

“Jesus, what’s all this for, baby? You’re more metal and plastic than a Gen 2.”

Rolling her eyes at him, she peaked over her shoulder.

“Structural integrity.”

Deacon’s freckled hand moved on its own, lower, following the straps of her garter belt up and under her little slip skirt. His breath nearly whistled as it hitched against her neck, feeling the heat radiating from her body. 

“You’re full of surprises. No panties?”

She bit her cheek as he ghosted over the soft hair against her slightly wet folds.

“Didn’t want lines showing through the dress.”

The familiar feeling of control, of power, rushed through Deacon, and he gathered her wrists behind her back, moving her firmly until Galatea was bent over the couch. Slightly clumsy with one hand, he took a photo of her exposed to him. Dropping the camera to the couch, he shoved her skirt slip up around her ribs, smacking her ass harshly until she hissed at him. He took another fast shot, desperately wishing the flash would encapsulate the shape of his hand print. Still holding her wrists, Deacon discarded the camera, using his spare hand to palm at himself through the tightening denim of his jeans.

“Shit baby, you look like something outta a pre-war nudey mag. What was it called, uh… Dick’s Brazzers?”

Galatea barked her filthy laugh at him, wiggling beneath her held wrists.

“John Willie’s Bizarre, as if I haven’t seen the copies lying around HQ. Not that I ever was good enough to be featured.”

Her comment woke something equally aroused and confused within him, and he pulled her back to look at him.

“Wait - there’s photos of you, like this, _out there?”_

She shrugged, laughing at his expression.

“A girl’s got bills. It was fun and a quick way to make a buck.” Adding to his incredulous expression, “Men feel powerful thinking the women in the photos were vulnerable. We had the power of making them believe that.”

Shaking his head at her, brain still not processing the images she’d injected into his mind, he bit her shoulder playfully.

“I’m searching for them. Next time we’re in the Common.”

He ground against her, hand grabbing at her thigh. The other released her hands to gather the slick growing between them. Galatea smirked at him.

“What, between the super mutants and raiders? You’ll be dead before you read the Freedom Trail?”

“Worth it.”

She must’ve been able to feel how hard he is for her, how he’s always surprised how much she gets him going each time they get it on. He kissed up her pulse, hands guiding her to move against him as he alternated between dipping into her shallowly and running circles around her clit. Her raspy voice vibrated against his mouth.

“Never had a partner, want to get a photo with me?”

Deacon groaned against her neck, shaking his head against her dark hair.

“Galatea, you know that’s not a good idea. I’d have to get a face change after, there’s the whole bruising and recovery thing...”

She pushed her back against him, using a hand on his shoulder to seat him on the couch with a wicked smile.

“Who said anything about your face?”

Dropping to her knees, she pulled roughly at his jeans, tapping his hip impatiently until he lifte his hips enough to slide them down his thighs.

“Shouldn’t I be doing this to you, birthday girl.” He joked, slightly breathless.

She pulled a face at him, licking her dark lips until a slight shine appeared.

“Only you would make a comment when a girl is about to suck you off. Shut up and let me indulge.”

Galatea moved slowly, teasingly, as she always did. Putting more effort into her performance than he ever did into his disguises. Barely opening her mouth, she dragged her mouth up and down his shaft, the tip of her tongue tasting the precum he’s already spilt. Letting her breath tickle against the wet her mouth has left, she smirked up at him. He took another photo as she licks at his head, giving him a few shallow bobs of her head before taking him deep in her throat. Swearing, he tangled his hands in the curls of her hair, pricking himself on the pins holding it up. She continued working on him methodically, using her hands on the parts her mouth and throat can’t reach. She pulled away with a shuddering breath, wiping the makeup from her eyes to kiss the tiny, freckle sized B on his hip. 

Deacon’s breath hitches as images flood his mind. He’s barely older than she is now, hopped up on beer and herb cigarettes, pissing himself laughing as his wife tattoos him with a needle and pen ink. It’s a wonder it didn’t get infected, spending those days drunk in love and cheap alcohol, ekeing out a humble farmer's life. If he forced himself to remember, he was pretty sure the night of the tattoo was also the night they decided to try for kids. To be stupid and optimistic enough to believe creating a human culmination of their love was the logical best choice for their life. A few months and a sea of spilled blood later, it was all that remained of them, of her. The only part of him that remained untouched, a dozen face changes later.

It unleashed something angry, untamed in him, and he wasn’t sure if he wants to fuck away the memory or lose himself in it. Knotting her hair in his fist, he reached under her armpit, pulling her roughly up against him before bending her back over the threadbare couch. Gripping the flesh of her heart-shaped ass, he pushed into Galatea roughly. She scrambled against him, nails scratching against his stomach through his thin shirt, as he snapped a photo of her stretched around him. He’s already so close, impossibly, balls pulling in tight as his stomach pulls in taught. It’s too soon to have made it good for her, her breathing still a steady rhythm, and he’s nearly apologetic as he pulled her by the neck to bite at her ear.

“Fuck baby, shit. I- _ah_ \- I’m going to cum.”

He pulled out a second too late, the first wave of his orgasm filling her before he painted her thighs with his cum. Sweating against her, he tugged her face against his in an exhausted, shaky kiss.

Galatea froze against him as his tongue pushed against the seam of her lips, her whole body flinching away from him as he panted against her lips. One of her hands blindly reaches back for him, shoving him away from her.

“Deacon, _don’t._ ”

Stumbling back two steps, Deacon ran a tired hand over his face, two fingers putting pressure on the inner corner of his eyes. When he opened them again, Galatea was still braced against the couch. Looking over her shoulder at him, she tugged the hem of her slip down. Deacon let out an uneasy laugh.

“Woo, Galatea. Shit. You’re too good. Give me a second baby, to catch my breath. Then I’ll make it up to you.”

She stretched out her back, hands on her hips, as she shook her head at him.

“No, it’s okay.”

There was an unease between them, not uncommon but surprising. Tentatively, he reached out to her back.

“Gene, I- uh,” _Shit_. “You okay?”

She nodded, picking up her dress from the floor. 

“How do you want me to…”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve uh, we’ve been drinking.”

Frowning, Deacon ran a hand down her back. His stomach dropped a few inches as she leaned away.

“I thought you said you weren’t drinking?”

Not looking at him, she pulled her shirt tighter against her neck.

“We’ve got an early morning. Des wanted us back at HQ by midday, right?”

Swallowing, he nodded.

“And I’ll have to duck in to see Amari, now.” Heading towards the partition that separated her room from the living space, she dumped the dress into the cardboard box acting as a laundry hamper.

“You remember where the spare blankets are, right? It shouldn’t be too cold if you just want to sleep on the couch as is.”

He waved her comment away. “Yeah, sure.”

He watched as she threw her clothes over the partition, presumably to wrap herself up in the ratty yellow robe she wore whenever she was at home. He clears his throat, awkwardly.

“We good?”

She laughed dryly.

“Yeah, we’re fine Deak. Goodnight.”

“‘Kay. Happy birthday.”

She snorted, and he could nearly imagine the disgusted face she’d pull at him.

“Yeah, sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I've been staring at this for nearly a week and it's not getting any better haha. Please accept this humble offering so I can move onto more exciting projects.
> 
> Also, John Willie's Bizarre was an actual fetish magazine in the late 40's. There's some gorgeous photos and pictures from it floating around the internet if you're into that. The images he took of his wife, Holly Faram, are particularly stunning. He was also part of a fetish club in my small hometown in the 1920's, which is cool.


End file.
